Last week, O’Reilly was on his game. He was yelling for a good two hours, bashing the secular progressive enemy, of which he can name about two members. He took credit again for winning the “War on Christmas”, and has revived this obscure but nevertheless mythical event so he can march into battle and declare victory again, never mind he was never able to do so in a U.S. Military uniform while appearing to be of an age eligible to have thrown his considerable abilities into the Vietnam war. But, in days of great American heroes like Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, Karl Rove, Dick Cheney, etc. who needs to have been in the military to understand how to fight a war.
Ultimately, when one takes the battle from the media, into the home of a private citizen, it’s time to call one out and demand accountability. Thus, Mr. O’Reilly owes Frank Funderburke of Hoboken, New Jersey (Joisey to natives) an apology and one should be demanded damned fast!
We uncovered this story while doing an investigation of upper scale homeless shelters where we lunch every Thursday because of a spicy but delightful Gazpacho in the offering or to uncover anyone feigning poor personal hygiene.
As Mr. Funderburke explains it, he had been a fan of the Factor” for years. “I liked the “no-spin-zone” approach to political discourse”, said Funderburke, where anyone in disagreement with O’Reilly was hollered at and tagged with an array of odd but insulting names. “The man is pure genius and if anyone disagrees, just ask him.”
So, as Funderburke watched from the comfort of his wheeless double-wide, his life began to become unraveled. “I had a bag of Mr. Kinkles under one arm and a beer in the other hand, the one on the other arm. As I reached into the bag for another potato chip, I was watching O’Reilly hawk some more of his paraphernalia. He’s got his books, Culture Warrior, Kids are Americans Too, he’s got his T-shirts, bumper stickers. I even became a premium member and got the underwear with the scratch-and-sniff O’Reilly skid marks. I had it all. Well, I thought I was in the club. But, while watching, I jammed a Mr. Krinkle under the finger nail of my middle finger, and I don’t know, but I think it was because of the salt that the finger started to sting.”
Funderburke continued….”O’Reilly , I usually call him Bill, was really going off on George Soros, his head was getting really big and it looked like the studio was about to explode. So, I pull this middle finger out of the bag and hold it up, right there in front of the T.V. It was an accident, it was. Had I not jammed my finger into that Mr. Krinkle, I’d still be in my living room.
Funderburke continued: “Well, I happened to glance at the T.V. Time seemed to just stand still. Bill isn’t talking and looks mad as hell. There I am flashing my throbbing middle finger at the screen. Next thing I know, the red starts to rise in Bill’s neck and his head now is the size oh a melon….not a small melon, but a water melon. Then, he sets down his notes, stands up, and walks right through the tube and into my living room. Whoever even thought that was possible?”
It was here I was starting to get just a little bit suspicious about Funderburke’s story, because I’ve never seen O’Reilly use notes. So, I took a breather and got up to fill my thermos with some extra Gazpacho. You see, soup is free at the homeless shelter and I always try to find a way to sneak some home. I’m not about to contribute to homeless obesity.
When I returned to the table, Funderburke had regained his composure and appeared to have come into a large plate of garlic bread sticks which he was cramming into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, and he was really worked into a lather. He’s waving his arms about his head and spewing chewed up garlic sticks everywhere.
“O’Reilly started bitch-slapping me all around my own place. He was screaming names at me, calling me a secular progressive and a pin-headed liberal. Then, he told me I was a Kool-Aid drinker! I don’t think he was being very fair or balanced.”
“He grabbed my brand new copy of the Hoboken Yellow Pages and began to whack me upside the head. I felt like I had let a Jehovah’s Witness into the double wide and he was knocking me about with three pound edition of the Watch Tower. There was beer everywhere and he bag of Mr. Krinkles went flying and got all ground up in the carpet with the beer and cigarette butts. I always regretted smoking after reading about what happened to the Johnsons twins. Anyway, it was here I passed out. I don’t know how long I was out and I don’t remember seeing O’Reilly leave, but a few hours later, I came to.”
“So, lying on the floor, on my back, stuck in a mix of potato chip starch, beer and ashes, the place smelled like pure hell. But, the smell could have been my 350 pound wife standing over me. She pulled her cell phone out of the crease in her obese earlobe and started screaming. I told her bout the whole O’Reilly deal. She said, ‘ I’ve had enough you miserable son-of-a-bitch’, which was actually quite a compliment because you have to be a man to be a son-of-a-bitch and she never considered me much of a man. As for O’Reilly, he won’t return any of my calls.
“That’s how I got to be homeless,” Funderburke iterated.
As for me, I don’t know whether to believe the guy or not. It all sounds fairly logical, but I have nevertheless decided that free Gazpacho is getting just a tad bit expensive for my taste. And, just o be safe, I won’t be watching any more of the “O’Reilly Factor”.
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16 comments:
That does it. I'm not listening to O'Reilly anymore!!!
Who is this Jill O’rielly? I do not know this person. I do not think you have thought all of this through. It sounds bad. You should write about goats instead. Goats are good.
Not "jill"...it's "Bill"... say "Beeeeoooowww,...Beeeeoooowww, Owwryleee,....Owwryleee"
Heh, heh, heh. Why you listen to dis guy fo? When he on in da horsespital we never listen to whot he say. Day say dem peoples go “turn on dem teletubbies or someone, get dis bald turkey off da tube. Heh, heh, heh.... so only some loser listen to dis guy anyway. He talk funny like you. No one care bout dat stuff, dey only want to know bout brittaney speers or someone. O’reilly talk like you, like he got lips on his butt. Heh, heh, heh.... here come zymanski with my medication....unmmm... I tink you outta do what dat man say an right about goats.
I’m writing a paper for my University abnormal psych class about people who free-base ecstasy and I’m linking it to this blog. The link will let people see the effects that I will mention in my paper. It seems unfortunate that you continue to use yourself as a lab rat. Admittedly, however, this is a classic pattern for people with a history of LSD addiction. Perhaps Mr. Toupee, if you gave up your fast food job and sought out professional help for your problem you might make a fine politician. Otherwise, no good will come of you.
You know, one day my cousin Ranjeet saw a goat who had eaten some ecstasy. He was chasing a lawnmower. Perhaps he wanted to mate with it? Who knows? He said it was more amusing than watching mr oreally chasing the toeboy man please, berry berry amusing.
By God you’ve really crossed the line this time toeboy! Comparing Bob O’rally to an intoxicated goat! Well I won’t stand for your constant bashing of immigrants. Irish Americans are the backbone of this fine nation. If it weren’t for the Irish we wouldn’t have potatoes, or famine, or Dan Quayle or green beer. Then where would we be?
Well, it isn’t too hard to figure where we’d be without the Irish….probably out of these freekin’ AA meetings is one place we’d be. But, that wouldn’t solve the whole problem. You still got the Ruskies….like Yeltsin. Remember when he came over and got tanked….then passed out in the produce department of Safeway he did, muttering all the while that we Americans had it all….HAD IT ALL!!! Then, he went down to Hooters and hung on a couple more and after seeing those melons, he done decided the old hammer’n’sickle couldn’t compete. They haven’t won the Olympics since.
Now, we gotta deal with old Almond, Dean and John, those three Iranian knucleheads who occupy the same body of some Persian goat farmer. He decided to compete and opened his own version of Hooters over in Teheran only instead of doing a parody of owls, he’s doing it with sheep. And, he’s not using scantily clad women for waitresses either. The fool is using REAL SHEEP for God’s sake. The Iranians can’t get enough of it. But’ that plan will never fly on an international basis. Today, they have all the oil. Tomorrow, they’ll have all the sheep.
P.S. Has anyone seen my shishkabob?
You dunderhead! You have now managed to irritate the Irish, the Russians, the Iranians, the immigrants, both legal and illegal, Bill O’Reilly and a host of animals from sheep to goats. Is there no limit to your tirades??? Even Dr. Zymanski is pissed.
I have noticed that most dunderheads are men and most homeless folks are also male. And Bill O'Reilly is male and a big idiot. I think there is some correlation here.
Herbert, I've seen your "shishkabob"...it's not worth finding.
For Chrisesakes Mishelle, not on the internet, please! There are kids usin' this crap for book reports and stuff.
Oh fiddlesticks!!! No kids are reading this drivel. Oops...I mean crap.
My Goodness! All this talk of Goats and Swizzle sticks is making me a bit warm, I do declare! I’ve always found you Godless heathens a bit primitive but I never imagined it would come to this. I’ve got to tell Jim about this. Jim will know what to do. How my Sunday school class kids ever got a hold of this blog I can't imagine. It's worse than that time they found that National Geographic hidden in the choir loft.
Here’s the recipe for my Gazpacho Goat Shish kabob
Ingredients
1 leg of goat
1 can of gazpacho soup
1 ¼ inch by 3 foot length of steel pipe (pointy a one end)
Directions
Jab the steel pipe through the goat leg and the can of gazpacho. Hold over an open fire (wooden furniture makes a great fire), until all the hair burns off the goat leg and the label on the soup can is no longer legible. Empty the contents of the can into a bowl through one of the convenient holes left from the skewer and dip the goat’s leg in it. Enjoy!
Do you remove the leg form the damned goat first, Skippy?
A while back, when I was a driving on the Monster Truck circuit I was driving across country to my next race and I stopped to give this fat girl who was hitchhiking a ride just outside of Pierre SD. Well, the first thing she did when she got in my truck was to whip out her cell phone, and call one of her fat girl friends and then she fired up a huge stogie that smelled vaguely like road kill caught in a forest fire. I gotta tell you, that got old real quick, but the passenger side door on that old truck never did hold real well so I though that when I hit the next hard and fast corner I pull my leg off the throttle and give her a little shove with the hope that she would hit the pavement like a 300lb sack of rice pudding and I could be rid of her, thank God. Anyway, the next curve was approaching and she happened to mention to me (in between puffs and gabbing) that she knew of a little dive in Montana that served the best goat shishkabob she had ever eaten. Well that really got me curious, so I decided to put up with her a little while longer. Eventually we pulled up to this place just outside of Miles City called “Abduls Stop, Drop and Roll”. We went inside and the scene was straight out of some Wild West magazine, except for the strange Middle Eastern influence in the décor that was obviously injected in a vain attempt to give the place some atmosphere. In the middle of the room there was a round table surrounded by a dozen cowboy types sitting on leather cushions watching this girl belly dance. They were smoking a water pipe kind of hooka thing with about twelve hoses coming off of it and filled with some Gawd awful smelling Bovine droppings, I’d guess. There was this guy playing the sitar sitting on top of a piano. The piano player seemed determined to dictate what kind of music they were gonna play, and he was determined that the music was going to be polkas, but the sitar player was having none of it, insisting on traditional middle eastern music and the timbre thus created was oddly soothing. Just then a guy wearing the whole linen closet came out and brought me and the fat chick a whole plate of goat-kabobs and a bowl of the best gazpacho I have ever eaten. Bout’ then I noticed that every time old linen closet left the room the piano and sitar player would break into this western hoedown style riff and the belly dancer would start gyrating in a manner that was most gratifying to the beer drinking, card playing, hooka smoking cowboys. I finally went up and asked the piano player what the hell was going on. He told me that the place had originally been a cowboy bar that was closed down because it was a front for an ecstasy ring. A musically inclined Bavarian proctologist had bought the place but he too went bankrupt because he couldn’t afford his fried chicken habit. When Abdul had tried to buy the place the Miles City Chamber of commerce wouldn’t here of it and they declared the building to be within the historic distinct in an attempt to block Abduls restaurant plans with Historic district covenants. Much to their chagrin, Abdul got the place anyway, agreeing to adhere to the covenants. So now the place was a Middle Eastern Cowboy eatery with a drive in proctology window. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, the historical committee was chaired by a close friend of, Bill O’Reilly. Small world eh?
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